The Mystery Guest

“Molly,” he says as he slides into the banquette across from me. He’s dressed rather formally, wearing a navy pullover with a crisp shirt underneath and a tie, something he rarely wears, not even for our Sunday dinners.

“How wonderful to see you outside the confines of work,” he says once seated. “I’ve been wanting to speak to you privately for some time.” He smiles, crow’s-feet nestling into the corners of his eyes.

Even this I cannot trust—his familiar face lined with what I once thought was pure kindness. “Mr. Preston,” I say. “I’ve called you here today because you are a liar.”

His eyes grow wide in an instant. “Excuse me?” he replies.

“A liar. A dissimulator. A thief,” I say. “You’ve always told me that appearances can’t be trusted, that not all frogs turn out to be princes. Mr. Preston, it is with a heavy heart that I tell you I’ve seen you for what you are—warts and all.”

“My dear girl, I don’t know what you’re talking about. There must be some mistake.”

“There is not,” I say. “Yesterday, on my way back from the police station, I spotted you outside the pawnshop with a particular tome in your hot little hands. You sold it, the first edition of The Maid in the Mansion.”

Mr. Preston shrugs. “I don’t deny it. The price has gone up substantially, and while I can see that you may interpret that as profiteering from the writer’s death, the truth is, Molly, I’m in need of a bit of extra money. I’m getting old. That’s one of the things I’ve been wanting to talk to you about, but I was worried you’d be upset. Hauling suitcases is a young man’s job, and I’m not sure how much longer I can do it. I’m thinking about retiring. And I need a financial cushion, a little nest egg to make things work.”

“Stealing is no way to amass a Fabergé!” The words roar out of me, something I realize only after the heads of several diners pivot my way.

“Stealing?” whispers Mr. Preston as he leans across the table. “I haven’t stolen anything in my life, least of all a Fabergé.”

I study his face, looking for telltale shiftiness, which so often betrays a lie, but I find nothing.

I try a new tactic. “Once upon a time, there was a box,” I say. “Inside was a rare first-edition copy of The Maid in the Mansion,

belonging to Ms. Serena Sharpe. One second it was on the reception desk. The fire alarm was pulled and—poof—the box disappeared. The next time I saw that book, it was in your hands.”

“Oh, Molly,” Mr. Preston says as he puts his elbows on the table and hides his face in his palms.

“Elbows are not meant for the table, not now, not ever,” I remind him.

Mr. Preston sighs. He does, however, remove his offending appendages from the tabletop.

The waiter saunters over. “Hey there. Are you two ready to order?” he asks.

“Chardonnay, two glasses,” Mr. Preston says.

“I will not be drinking wine,” I say. “Water for me. This is hardly a celebration.”

The waiter looks from me to Mr. Preston, expecting further explanation. When he doesn’t receive it, he slinks away.

“Molly,” Mr. Preston says. “I have a confession to make.”

Here it is, the moment when all my fears congeal into ugly reality, when all my trust in a man who has been like family to me is destroyed in an instant. But I will beat him to the punch. “So you admit it: you poisoned Mr. Grimthorpe.”

“What?! I did no such thing!” Mr. Preston replies. “How can that even cross your mind?”

I look at him carefully, studying his face. He is on the verge of tears.

“Molly, the only thing I’m guilty of is a little white lie,” he says. He grabs a napkin from the holder on the table, then dabs his forehead before continuing. “A few days ago, when you asked me about Mr. Grimthorpe, I suggested I did not know him, but I do. Or rather I did, a long time ago.” He pauses, staring at me as though waiting for me to figure something out.

“Go on,” I say.

“That book I pawned is one Grimthorpe gave me himself, years ago when I was under his employ and you…well, you were knee-high to a grasshopper.”

Nothing makes any sense. This sounds like fancy footwork to distract me from the terrible truth. “The Grimthorpes never had a doorman,” I say, crossing my arms. “I know this for a fact.”

“Correct,” Mr. Preston replies. “But they did have a gatekeeper.”

My head starts to swirl. The banquette under me tilts and whirls. Memories and feelings collide as though a tornado is sweeping through me.